I was about to change into pajamas when someone knocked on the door. The DO NOT DISTURB sign still dangled from the inside doorknob. “Stupid,” I said aloud. Was it O’Neill? I’d pretend I was asleep.
Another knock. “Jess?” A female’s voice.
It was the blond fledgling mystery writer, Susan Dalton, who wore black slacks, black sweater, and black sneakers. She looked like a cat burglar.
“Hello, Susan.”
“I hope I’m not too late,” she said.
“Too late? For what? And yes, you are late.”
“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t wait to talk to you. I stayed away all day because there’s always somebody watching. The staff’s asleep by now. Can I come in?” She’s said everything in an exaggerated whisper.
“Yes.” I stepped back to allow her to enter, which she did, but only after carefully looking up and down the hall.
“Is something wrong?” I asked once we were both inside.
“Lots wrong.”
“Oh?”
“I have something to show you. Look!”
She took out a plastic sandwich bag. In it was a key.
“A key,” I said.
“You bet.”
“A key to what?”
“I’ll show you. Put on your shoes. Sneakers if you have them.”
“I don’t have sneakers.”
“Shoes, then. Quiet ones, with soft soles.”
“Susan—”
“I know. I’m acting strange, and you’re wondering what in the world I’m up to.”
“Something like that,” I said, failing to stifle a bemused smile.
“Will you come with me?” Susan asked.
“At this hour?”
“It’s perfect. Everyone’s asleep. At least the staff.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
When I didn’t follow her to the door, she said in a slightly exasperated tone, “This key opens up a room in which there is a safe. And in that safe is something amazing, Jessica. Awesome. At least for me, and I know for you, being a fellow writer. Come on.” She grabbed my arm.
“You opened this safe, Susan?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you know the combination?”
“Inside sources. I’ll tell you about that later. Come on.”
“Did it ever occur to you, Susan, that opening someone else’s safe just might be illegal?”
“It’s research. For my novel. Everything’s falling into place. What’s in the safe gives me a great closing scene. It’s so good, I might even become the next you. P-l-e-a-s-e. Let’s go now.”
“Okay,” I said. “Lead on.” I slipped into felt-soled slippers and followed her out the door.
Once in the hallway, Susan put her index finger to her lips to remind me to be quiet. We walked slowly and silently, lifting each foot and bringing it down with great deliberation, like old people walking on ice. I heard my own breathing as we proceeded down the corridor. A succession of DO NOT DISTURB signs hung from doors.
Susan led us around a corner, then up a short, narrow flight of stairs that ended at another hall, one I hadn’t seen before. Halfway down its length, she halted in front of an unmarked door. Susan withdrew the key from its plastic pouch, inserted it in the lock, and the door swung open. She fumbled in search of a light switch, found it, and the room was illuminated from a low-wattage bulb in a small glass ceiling dome.
The room was in disarray. There were many boxes on the floor, some sealed, some open and empty. A couple of broken chairs and desks lined one wall. It was obviously a room used for storage.
Susan pointed to a far corner. “There it is,” she whispered. I followed her. Light from the overhead fixture barely reached the comer, in which a small, old-fashioned safe was nestled.
Susan fell to her knees, pulled a pencil-thin flashlight from a pocket in her slacks, and handed it to me. I directed its intense, focused beam on the combination dial as she quickly, deftly spun it with one hand, using her other to again remind me to be quiet.
The safe opened. Susan peered into its dark recesses, reached inside, and pulled out a file folder thick with papers. She handed it to me. I didn’t open it.
“Give it to me,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
She opened the file and nodded affirmatively. “Here. Check this out.”
At the top of a piece of gray stationery was the Central Intelligence Agency’s insignia. The subject of the letter read:
“Operation Artiste.”
Why would the CIA run a program called Operation Artiste? I silently wondered.
“Go ahead, Mrs. Fletcher. Read.”
As I read that letter, and others, all addressed to Michael O’Neill as director of the Worrell Institute for Creativity—and feeling very much the traitor to my country; each document was stamped TOP SECRET—a picture emerged of a remarkable relationship between America’s preeminent intelligence organization, and Worrell. It appeared to me—and I admit reading quickly, scanning actually—that Worrell had been established as a center of mind-control experimentation for the CIA. The letters I read didn’t specify sums, but it was obvious that Worrell’s major funding did not come from its artists-in-residence. It came from the government.
“This is fascinating,” I said.
“Read it all,” Susan said, sitting on the floor, her back against the wall
I pulled another paper from the file. It’s subject was “Maureen Beaumont.” It was a memo written by O’Neill to someone at the CIA, in Langley, Virginia.
I’d only gotten a few lines into it when we I heard a noise. “What’s that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, scrambling to her feet.
“Better put these back,” I said. She shoved the file into the safe, closed the door, and spun the dial.
We left the room. Susan locked the door, and we retraced our steps back to my room. Inside it, and out of breath, she grinned and said, “What do you think of
that
?”
“I don’t know what to think of it,” I said. “I wish we’d had more time there.”
“We can go back tomorrow night.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be here tomorrow night.”
“That’s okay. Maybe I can sneak the file out somewhere, have it copied.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said. “As fascinating as it is, we have no business, or right, to be reading such documents.”
She guffawed. “Jessica, we are witness to what might be the crime of the century. I’ve read more of the file than you have. We’re guinea pigs here. The CIA wants to see if creative people are better subjects to become robots, hypnotized, drugged robots to do the government’s bidding.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Susan, do not remove that file. Forget morality or ethics. It could cost you your life.”
“Like it cost Maureen Beaumont her life.”
“I think you’d better leave now,” I said. “Get to bed. I’ll do the same. We can talk again tomorrow.”
“Want to meet me somewhere? In town? That place, Mara’s?”
“No. I’m meeting most of the day with Dr. O’Neill and his staff.”
“I’ll hook up with you in some way,” she said. She went to my door, placed her hand on the knob, turned, and said, “Be careful, Jessica. These people are evil.”
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep. But I did. My final thought as I drifted off was that I hadn’t called Seth or Mort, as promised. I’d do it first thing in the morning.
Chapter Sixteen
I awoke at six feeling refreshed. I’d only slept five hours, but they’d evidently been hours of sufficient quality to rejuvenate mind and body.
I stopped at the front desk in search of a newspaper on my way to breakfast. The night manager, a slender, pouty young man, was still on duty. “Mrs. Peterson,” he said. “You have two messages.”
I read the slips he handed me. Seth and Mort had both called, and wanted me to return their calls ASAP.
“That sheriff is a nasty guy,” the manager said. “He went ballistic when I told him there was no Mrs. Fletcher here.”
“Yes, I imagine he did.” It had never occurred to me that they would ask for me by name, but be told no such person existed at Worrell. “Did you finally tell them I was here?” I asked.
“Yeah. After that crazy sheriff threatened to come here and arrest me.”
I kept my smile to myself.
“You’d better call them back, Mrs. Peterson. Before the sheriff freaks out again.”
I used the pay phone in the lobby.
“Mort? It’s Jessica.”
“You gave me and Seth some scare,” he snapped. “What in hell’s goin’ on there? Mrs. Peterson. Who’s that?”
“That’s me, I’m afraid. Look, Mort, I’m sorry about the mix-up, and that I forgot to call last evening. But I’m fine. If things go the way I hope, I’ll be back home tonight.”
“That’s good to hear, Jess. Seth’s upset, too.”
“Please call him for me. I’m due at a—at a meeting most of the day.”
“Learnin’ anything?” Mort asked.
“I can’t talk, Mort. I’ll call later, hopefully from home.”
“Unless you forget.”
“I won’t
forget.
Bye. Have to run.”
O’Neill had been right. I was virtually alone for breakfast at that early hour. Brunch wouldn’t be served until eleven. Disappointed that I would miss the chef’s highly touted blueberry pancakes—I had a waffle, bacon, and juice—I returned to my room, sat at the desk, and, using Norman’s laptop computer, made notes about what I’d learned the night before with Susan Dalton, and the conclusions I’d reached at this juncture.
Norman Huffaker was alive. He’d staged his suicide at the Moose River, then driven his Rent-a-Wreck to Boston where he took a flight, under the name B. K. Praether, to Washington, D.C.
He’d come to the Worrell Institute for Creativity under false pretenses. Barbara McCoy had hinted at that during our lunch together. Based upon the leftover label in his label-making machine, he was working on some sort of a documentary about Worrell. My guess was that he’d learned about the institute’s connection with the Central Intelligence Agency, and was researching that.
He showed what Barbara McCoy considered an inordinate interest in Maureen Beaumont, the young musician who allegedly took her own life. Ms. Beaumont was from Los Angeles. Maybe they knew each other. Maybe—just maybe she’d come to Worrell under false pretenses, too, to help gather material for Norm. That would mean, of course, that they knew each other well in Los Angeles. I had no information to establish that. Not yet, anyway.
Another suicide attempt, fortunately an unsuccessful one, had left the victim in a semi-comatose state. Coincidence? Possibly. Maybe she had actually tried to take her life in response to Maureen Beaumont’s tragic death.
Norm’s computer disks had disappeared. Two possibilities. One, they’d been taken by Michael O’Neill and his staff to cover up what Norm had discovered about their CIA connections. Or, two, Norm had taken them with him. I voted for the latter
According to Susan Dalton, the residents of Worrell were guinea pigs. “Operation Artiste.” To see whether creative people made better subjects for mind control. Far-fetched? Perhaps. But I’d read about those horrible experiments conducted by the CIA a few decades ago, in which innocent lives had been lost. Congress had investigated, and demanded that the abuses stop. The CIA had assured Congress all such experimentation was a thing of the past. But was it? Not according to Susan, or the few letters and memos in the file upstairs I’d managed to read.
I stored my notes, and went to the window. Yesterday’s sunshine had given way to low, fast-moving gray clouds. It had begun to rain, and the wind had picked up, sending raindrops against my window-pane. At least it wasn’t more snow, I thought. The temperature must have risen.
I leaned closer to the window, which afforded me a view to my left of a portion of the circular driveway that wound around the main building, and disappeared in back. A large, black umbrella appeared, presumably from a rear door. It was followed by other black umbrellas. A car—dark green, four-door sedan——came from behind the mansion and stopped where the umbrellas stood. Doors opened, and umbrellas were lowered. Two men in raincoats shook O’Neill’s hand, and climbed into the vehicle. O’Neill watched as the car slowly pulled away and passed directly beneath my window. I couldn’t clearly make out what was written on the side of the car, but it had a small, official seal of some sort on its door. A government-issue automobile.
O’Neill disappeared from view.
I checked my watch. Ten minutes until my session with him and his colleagues. For a moment, I considered packing up and leaving. Getting out of there.
But I knew I’d be leaving empty-handed, despite what I’d already learned. What could I prove? Nothing. I would go home and wait to learn what had happened to Norman Huffaker. If my suppositions were wrong, that wait would extend until spring, when the river thawed.
A knock at the door.
“Dr. O’Neill asked me to escort you to your session this morning, Mrs. Peterson.” Beth Anne Portledge was dressed in her “uniform”—severely tailored dark brown suit, white blouse that buttoned to the neck, and sensible shoes.
“Oh. I was just about to leave for it.”
I gathered a few things and fell in behind her down the hall. She knocked at the door marked SESSIONS, heard O’Neill say, “Come in,” and held the door open for me.
O’Neill, and doctors Tomar Meti and Donald Fechter, sat in three leather director’s chairs that had been arranged in a semicircle. An empty, comfortable leather chair with arms, faced them.
“Good morning, Jessica,” O’Neill said pleasantly. “You know my colleagues.”
“I’ve met them.”
“Shame the weather has turned,” said O’Neill.
“Better rain than snow,” I said.
“I see the glass is half-full this morning. That medication I prescribed for you works wonders.”
I nodded. The pills I was supposed to have taken were lost in the sewer lines by now. I sat in the empty chair.